


Gunshot Memories

by EverythinggStayss



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DC Animated Universe (Timmverse), DC Extended Universe, DCU, DCU (Comics), Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth - Freeform, Angst, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Death, Dream Sequence, Emotional Numbness, Ficlet, Gen, Grief, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mourning, Nightmares, Origin Story, Self-Harm, Unasked for references to Lady Macbeth, Young!Bruce Wayne, and a thirst for Justice, he has Issues, he makes an appearance, poetic-ish, the Wayne murder, thomas and martha wayne are here but they die (spoilers) lol, with a lil dash of headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 10:06:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17322956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EverythinggStayss/pseuds/EverythinggStayss
Summary: He’s a mess on the inside; all scattered pearls and panicked breathes and the ugly metal click of a gun. It’s like he’s been split into two parts: before, and after.Before feels like warm coats and safe hugs and intelligent laughter.After feels like nothing at all.(Bruce in the weeks after the death of his parents)





	Gunshot Memories

**Author's Note:**

> TW: blood, death, self harm and unhealthy thoughts.  
> Please be safe.

Bruce feels a lot of nothing a lot of the time. It’s been a few weeks, or so the calendar claims.

He doesn’t let himself feel sadness, because he knows if he did the grief would be too much. He’d be drowning in his tears and he’d never be free.

He obviously can’t be happy. They’re _gone_. Dead.

So when he doesn’t feel empty, he feels angry. Anger strong enough to keep him going, burning and coiling inside him like a demon. This city, he realizes, needs fixing. The crime deserves _punishment_. It’s justice, he reasons. People getting what they deserve.

He’ll kill the man who killed his parents, because that’s what that scum deserves. He’ll kill the man who killed his parents, because it’s what _he_ deserves. Taking from those who took.

He still sees their blood on his hands.

- _desperately_ _putting_ _pressure_ _on_ _the_ _wounds_ , _pooling_ _red_ _everywhere_. _He_ _can’t_ _breathe_. _They_ _can’t_ _be_ _gone_. _They_ _can’t_ -

Bruce washed his hands on that night, but they’re still dripping with blood. It’s staining the carpet.

He walks to his bathroom, and stands in front of the mirror. He doesn’t recognize himself. Maybe it’s fitting, he’s not the same boy anymore.

- _gone... he can’t feel anything... how long has it been? are those sirens? his limbs don’t feel attached... he can’t move... this is wrong... they’re dead... the killer-_

He turns on the tap. Hot water leaves the faucet and hits the white porcelain sink. The water pressure is too high and it stings against his hands. He was going to have Alfred fix that soon, but then his parents died and now Bruce doesn’t care.

He scrubs at the blood, soap swirling down the drain. It’s not going away, so he scrubs harder, harder.

- _get back bruce! BANG thomas! BANG-_

He’s not sure how long he’s there for, but the water is cold and his fingers are pruning. His skin is red and cracked, with nail marks throbbing across his knuckles.

The sink is clean. He still sees blood.

 

* * *

 

He’s not sure what makes him do it.

He knows how he rationalizes it in his head, but it’s not why he really does it.

At first the flame doesn’t hurt, doesn’t feel like anything, until it does. It stings and burns and his body screams _pain, pain, stop!_

He doesn’t stop, because this is a training exercise. A test, to train his mind and strengthen his control over his nervous system.

With his resolve firmly in place, he keeps his hand steady, letting the bright flame of the candle lick his palm. He’s pale enough where his veins under his skin stand out in stark contrast, and he thinks about what it would be like if they were cut open.

His hand hurts, but some part of him likes it. He’s a mess on the inside; all scattered pearls and panicked breathes and the ugly metal click of a gun. It’s like he’s been split into two parts: before, and after.

Before feels like warm coats and safe hugs and intelligent laughter.

After feels like nothing at all.

Alfred walks into the room, and he snaps out of his spiralling thoughts.

The butler has his hand around his arm within seconds, snatching it away from the candle. His eyebrows are furrowed, his face is in shock, and his eyes are unreadable.

He’s angry, first. And then he’s wrapping Bruce in a hug so tight he can barely breathe.

Bruce doesn’t know what to make of this. He’s still processing. His mind has been slow lately, unlike Before.

Alfred clings to him like he was dead, too. Dead like his parents.

Dead.

 

* * *

 

He has a dream. It’s a nightmare, but they all are.

He’s tucked into his bed. It’s night. The lamp on his bedside table is on, and it casts a warm yellow light over the room. They sit on both sides of him. He is surrounded, and he is safe.

Thomas Wayne smiles, and his tired eyes light up. He’s reading a story aloud, and Bruce’s eyes follow along with the words on the page.

Martha Wayne presses a kiss into his hair, and wraps him in a gentle hug. She’s listening to the story, too, and making funny comments here and there.

They laugh. It’s nice.

There’s a knocking at the window. A dark figure smashes through the glass, and Bruce screams.

_BANG_

His father is face down, bleeding in his bed. Martha throws herself over him,

_BANG_

and his mother is glassy-eyed across his lap.

The figure, clothed in shadow and a billowing cloak, points the gun at him.

Bruce jumps out of bed and sprints out of the house. His breath is ragged and his legs pound against the ground. He runs, and his face is wet. He is crying. He runs and runs and runs and

Slips.

He’s falling now.

Tumbling down a gaping dark hole, his fingers scratching at the sides as he tries to catch himself.

There’s a terrible noise of flapping wings and he is surrounded by screeching creatures that tear at his clothes and reach for his eyes.

They’re bats, horrible mutant bats with leathery wings and beady eyes.

They swarm him, knitting together a living darkness until he can’t see anything but the darkest, inky black.

**Author's Note:**

> This came out of nowhere? I’ve taken inspiration from Gotham for that middle chunk and that thing with the hole full of bats for the last bit. And apparently Shakespeare for the first section. That’s what you get when you write at 4 am. 
> 
> Happy new year! 
> 
> (I’m working on a new chapter of HAoQM I swear)
> 
> Comment and Kudos are nice... ;)  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
